


The Next Level

by kswriter



Series: Reverberations [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Coaching, College Sports, Damaged, Drama, Drinking, Excessive Swearing, F/M, Famous, M/M, NCAA, News Articles, Paparazzi, Runaway, Sarcasm, Secrets, Smoking, Trauma, college kids, famous athletes, injuries, mentions of overdose, minor underage drinking, multiple POVs, reverb, reverb is a sport, slowburn, sports fiction
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-30
Packaged: 2021-03-14 23:47:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28929024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kswriter/pseuds/kswriter
Summary: They weren't a closely knitted team with their clashing personalities. Ririka didn't know why she was so damned surprised. Coach Sanders recruited misfits and delinquents in hopes of giving them a future against his better judgement. It was a fool's errand, but she wouldn't be against it. It's what brought her here in the first place.---Ririka Pinne is the newest signing for Indiane University's Reverb Team. She has the potential to finally rise to the top of the league—except she's a runaway. Signing with Indiane may be the most destructive and worst decision she has ever made, but it was going to be worth it. It had to be.That is, if her lies and face isn't found out by the time the first semester ends.
Series: Reverberations [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120952





	1. Way to Pick a Player

MAY

**MINOE** was going to doze off and possibly bang his head against the nearest wall if he had to watch another horrendous tape.

There were a plethora of talented people on these videos in his expertise, that he could spare, but they didn't even come close to his standards. His very high standards as the hours went on. Watching video and after video, Minoe started to yawn. Minoe couldn't help it, they were all just so damned polished for his liking. He wanted passion, excitement, _will_. All they were, were a bunch of shiny pieces of plastic dancing for attention.

Minoe could spot a player that didn't give two shits about reverb with the blink of an eye and the tapes he's watched up to this point proved this notion. They lacked the emotion and overall want when it came to reverb. He should've listened to Coach Sanders when the man had said that there was a sudden influx of tapes ever since he became an assistant coach at Indiane, even then, he was barely seen around campus.

"Assistant Coach" really meant, _my old team abused me, care to take me in?_ When put into simpler terms.

It seemed like a lot of athletes wanted to get onto Minoe Lapelle's radar. Sacrificing their education for some attention from one of the hottest stars in the industry wasn't worth it. It only made his job ten times harder when none of those athletes struck the spark he was looking for.

Minoe was so close to calling it a day. He wanted to give up and never look back. But he didn't want to force the Wolves into playing two whole halves for the whole season, _again_ . Minoe saw how that turned out. He played against them months ago, to say it was a disaster was a compliment. He also didn't want to pick a player that didn't work well with the team. Creating tension and arguments would not boost morale amongst the already low leveled Wolves. They created problems enough as it was being at the bottom of the table. Not to mention the countless curses and swears he's heard in his short tenure here. Honestly who says " _Go fuck yourself with one of your self-help books you boring fuck?_ " Apparently, Parrish Stills, to his supposed best friend, Matthew Condor.

Minoe thought that all of this would be for nothing, that he wasted his precious hours of rehabilitation for this, until he reached the final tape and file.

Minoe ran a hand over his face as he leaned back in his chair, looking up at the gray ceiling above. Minoe's dark hair was mussed after literally banging his head against the wall. At this point the plain drywall was more interesting than these talentless stones that said they were "the best of the best'' in each god damn clip they've emailed. Honestly, who were they kidding? If you had to validate that you were the best at a sport, show it through your eyes.

Eyes tell a lot about a person. They could be a sea green. An example of this would be Rowan Afeldan, who was undoubtedly skilled and passionate (used very loosely) at the sport, was dead behind the eyes. His brother, Alec, was the opposite in terms of eyes, not so different in personality. His eyes were vibrant and alive, but they held a lot of secrets.

He blinked, clearly he thought eyes were more interesting than tapes. Minoe blinked again, trying to clear the sleep coating his eyes and sat up. Sighing, he clicked on the final email on his laptop, pulling at his eyelids to make sure they don't snap shut. Thinking that this was going to be another dud, he didn't bother looking at the thin vanilla file he had on hand. Would you blame him after spending hours watching meaningless gameplay?

His laptop came to life, projecting a fuzzy screen that forced Minoe to lean forward to get a better look. Judging by the shakiness of the footage it was filmed on a phone and was rather close against the barricade separating them from the field. The quality was shit as well, not that it mattered or anything.

There were a series of passionate shouts and cheers, followed by the insistent banging on the plexiglass, that crackled against the audio. It made Minoe cringe as he heard screams reminiscent of some boy-band concert. _A high school crowd_. Something he never got to experience when he was playing for the Crows.

The Norman Crows were like royalty amongst the reverb scene and they were certainly treated like it. Mainly because Norman University was the origin of reverb and that its founders were still alive and kicking. At least one half. The excessive cameras and lack of privacy was what came with the membership. Life as a celebrity was thrust at you with full force and you had to figure it out yourself. Either those yourself in the business or close yourself off from the world. It had been a dream and a nightmare crashed into one.

"Run _Pinne_!" A female voice said, crackling against the wind as the crowd grew rowdier by the second.

 _Pinne_ was running rather fast on the sidelines, at least a meter of space separated them from the barricade as they caught the ball their dealer had heaved in their direction. Pinne didn't lose balance despite the obvious weight behind the throw, but they couldn't hold onto the ball forever. Once the twelve steps were up they passed it to their strike partner, number two? As number two ran with the ball, Pinne got across their defenseman with a sly twist, barely brushing past them as the move was done expertly. And the cause of the move was to advance and send the opposition to the floor, which did happen. But Minoe was a prodigy, he knew how much calculation you'd have to do to pull off the ballsy move, it was a move he's done countless times himself. In fact, he was the only one who did it because he had the precision to. So why did this high school senior know how to do it, not just _do_ it, but pull it off so successfully that it looked like they simply ran past them and the defender just _fell_? 

Number two took a shot that was deflected off the keeper's right, ricocheting off the body armor and directly in front of the awaiting striker on the keeper's left. Pinne didn't hesitate as they scooped and heaved the ball up in one smooth motion before hurling it with ferocity. It clipped the bar and went in. The court blared red, surprising due to the lower budgets of high schools opposed to universities. The cheers were deafening. It felt like Minoe was watching a Division I game and falling in love with it all over again.

"Atta _girl_!" The female voice said again, Minoe assumed it was the coach. 

_Oh_. How did he not catch it sooner. It made perfect sense.

The ferocity of her swing, the light airy toes, the precision of each swing—Minoe would and could definitely say that Parrish could not do that even if he tried. He was too heavy with his movements clearly going for power instead of the sharp precision that forced a player to be light, airy, and controlled. Despite the rusty skills and overall lack of polishing of the moves he saw it.

She played like it was her last day on Earth, like her life depended on it. She performed like it would be ripped away from her hands if she stopped for one second. She played to only thrive not prosper. The type player he wanted to compete beside. She had passion. Her whole heart and soul was in the sport like there was nothing else for her.

Minoe flipped open the file and was met with the typical factsheets that consisted of age, ethnicity, and "achievements."

_Ririka Pinne_

_Aged 18_

_Japanese English/French?_

_Captain of the Malentico's reverb team_

_Passionate and a team player_

Why the question mark? Were they that—never-mind its a public school. Besides that, there was nothing of a significance. But captain? After only two years of attending this high school? Interesting. Was she really that flexible?

Minoe then looked at the picture they attached to the file. Ririka had dark hair, black like the night sky cut to her shoulders. Her wide almond shaped eyes seemed to be soulless even as she smiled, teeth straight and shiny. Her countenance was of sharp angles in the light, cheekbones defined, hair swooped down on half of her face. Everything so carefully crafted to be indistinguishable, unnoticeable. She was hiding from something. Minoe had a lot of experience in that area. But then again everyone had something to hide in a world like this. Where everyone wanted to be something and nothing, all at once. 

-

**THEY** flew out to Malent, North Carolina the next day. After going back and forth with the coach, Minoe got the schedule of their games but he knew he had to be at the most recent one. Which was in three days on Tuesday. 

Who knew when their pathetic season would end? Besides, Minoe couldn't afford to have hope that they'd make it far into their league. Minoe had seen some blurry clips from their other games uploaded onto YouTube and they've never managed far when it came to competitions. Not that he'd blame them. Their previous years were in the worst conditions possible, but it didn't dissaude anyone from stopping when it came to rain. Many would just suck it up and say that they'd continue on despite the conditions because of the joy they felt during the sport.

They walked through the airport at breakneck speed. None of them could risk being recognized, they were _that_ mainstream that it was a possibility. Minoe didn't realize it'd be this hard to even remain discreet, even as he shrugged on non-descript clothing. There were many things that could lead to their discovery, mainly Minoe in that prospect.

HIs green eyes, the loosely wrapped left hand, the way he held himself—there were a lot of things people could pick up because he was in the spotlight constantly, not that he had a choice in today's media. Everything was so meticulously looked at now and days. There could be white smoke in the background and people would instantly be assuming that he was smoking, that level of extreme. 

Minoe kept his head down, slightly hoping that his dark hair would fall down from its prison of hairspray to hide most of his face. If that didn't work, a hood would have to do. He couldn't risk being recognized, this would be his first time out in the public since his injury a month ago and the press would have a fucking field day with the photos. He'd never hear the end of it. All of his social media accounts would be tagged and spammed constantly before he'd be forced to make a statement. And even if he was spotted, it meant that he'd have to be tolerable and would have to smile. He couldn't be asked to smile this early in the morning. If fans saw him, what made him think that he'd be safe from the journalists? He already could see the headline: **MINOE LAPELLE SPOTTED AFTER CAREER THREATENING INJURY?**

So it had not been a surprise when Rowan Afeldan had asked to tag along for the trip. He didn't have to come, it could've just been him and Coach Sanders, but Rowan had wanted to come for unknown reasons. He always seemed to want to follow Minoe after he finally left the Norman Crows after all these years. Always trailing behind or in front of him as if he needed his protection. Minoe supposed he could've told the keeper to fuck off and that he didn't need him, but then again he didn't want a knife held to his throat. So Minoe let Rowan do whatever the hell he pleased. He always did anyway. 

He let out a breath as they finally boarded the plane after an extensive baggage claim. In return, Coach Sanders patted him on the shoulder. One Minoe dutifully ignored. 

By the time they landed, it was probably around 3:00pm in California and maybe 6:00 here if he were to guess based on what he remembered about clocks. 

Minoe blinked, clearing the sleepy fog coating his eyes. “Oh, fuck,” he murmured sleepily, suddenly remembering where he was. 

“Why are you swearing? You just woke up.” Rowan slurred, but despite sleeping, his tone was still deadpanned. Black hair pressed against his right eye as his free one stared emptily at Minoe. He looked like a character out of a novel. Perfect and the epitome of beauty despite being so royally fucked up in the head. 

“No offense to you, but I’m known by almost every person in the world even though many don’t even watch the damned sport. Sorry for panicking and fearing we’ve been caught because I was idiotic enough to sleep.” 

“Well you talking isn’t exactly helping now is it?” 

And that was that. They each grabbed their bags from the compartment and left the plane without another word, careful to not make eye contact with anyone no matter the age. Anything could happen at this point and Minoe was going to be paranoid about it whether Rowan liked it or not. 

Apparently that lasted only ten minutes by the time their uber arrived. “Would you cut that out?” Rowan hissed lowly. “You look like you’ve commited murder.”

Minoe scowled. “Piss off. This maybe isn’t affecting you right now but it will.”  
  
“Oh?”

Minoe took the liberty of ignoring Rowan the whole ride to the motel room they booked. It's petty, he knows it is, but this is what he dealt with for about two weeks and the best way to deal with Rowan Afeldan is to simply not give him any attention whatsoever. Which was hard when he’s such an ass. Which is all the time if Minoe really thought about it. 

The ride was silent but it didn’t feel tense to him, it felt almost cathartic and freeing. It should’ve been weird to seek comfort in the silence, but it was nice. He’d take the quiet moments of peace instead of a screaming stadium filled with fans even if it did give him a rush. 

The room was nothing special, it was a room with two beds and a fold out couch. It couldn’t get more simpler than that. As long as there were four walls around him and a bathroom, he was set, no matter how grimy a room truly was. 

Minoe claimed the couch and instantly turned on the tv. The Raya Reynolds show just happened to be on. 

“...they wanted to play one last game against each other, as boys do.” It was the voice that made Minoe halt his hands from reaching his bag. _Ayeese Norman_. “There were many ways that this idea could go wrong, and sadly it did. And everything went downhill from there.” 

When did this interview happen? “Late March,” Coach Sanders answered, reading his mind. “Barely even a week before the... _incident_.” 

“I’m not a piece of fucking glass alright?” Minoe snapped and took to ignoring both of the people he’d have to tolerate the next day. 

-  
  


**SO** here they were, staring up at Malent High dressed in the least flamboyant clothing one could buy. It was grand in the way high school's should be, pillared like a national museum, yet somehow rustic like a neighbor's brick house. The building itself wasn’t impressive, he’s probably been in sports complexes more elegant than this.

Minoe looked down at his phone, 3:45. Game starts at four according to Nadia Angeles, the African American coach, which also meant fifteen minutes until kickoff.

"You aren't getting cold feet are you Lapelle?" Rowan teased, snapping Minoe out of his head. "You bargained for this girl to be on the team. Surely you aren't regretting your decision now." The raven haired boy always seemed to be high on drugs when he spoke, but this wasn't the case.

Rowan Afeldan used smiles and taunts as a way of escape from this cruel world, it was something Minoe himself could get behind. Everyone needed someone that took their mind off their shitty life, Rowan Afeldan was his in this bleak time. The out of hand comments and taunts brought something lively to the team even if the others didn't have the same sentiments.

"No," he said simply, stuffing his left hand in his pocket. The scars on the back of his hand made him twitchy, even when the cold fall air passed over them. He hadn't been able to move his hand let alone twitch it. The pain had made him wince every time he so much as lifted it the wrong way. "Just cold."

Minoe knew he should've wrapped it up before they came here, but he thought he could handle it. Thought he could handle the simple breeze of air, thought that it couldn't bother him this damn much. Clearly he was wrong about his resilience.

He went to ask Coach to possibly go back to the hotel room or if he simply had a roll when Rowan tapped him on the shoulder. Minoe turned towards him, annoyance creeping up like a friend, thinking it was one of his usual taunts before he noticed the roll in his hand, and he immediately felt grateful. It was moments like these that maybe, maybe the world wasn't so bad as it presented itself.

He muttered his thanks and grabbed the white athletic tape from the other green eyed boy. Minoe had started to unravel the tape when they walked through the gates. He pressed it against the base of his wrist and started to hastily wrap his scarred flesh, trying not to acknowledge the cold chill as it brushed its taunting hand. He wrapped it around his fingers precariously, minding the tattooed letters against his pointer finger, and finally broke off the tape. Ease falling in waves as he finally breathed. Minoe hoped that he didn't have to be this pathetic for very long.

By the time they made it to the base of the court, at least half of the school were in the stands. Many were running to get the best seats, and Minoe almost smiled from underneath his hood. It had been a long time since he'd watched a live reverb match, one that wasn't his own. He was always the one on the court, dazzling the world with his skills, but that wasn't the case anymore; ever since his injury, he had taken an extended sabbatical away from the sport. And he ended that once he started looking for a protege that would one day conquer the reverb world like he once had.

Minoe flexed his hand, then his fingers. Pain flared up his arm from the simple movement. He fought back the wince even when they were amidst the rowdy crowd. If pain still lingered, it meant that he still couldn't hold a racquet in his left hand. It meant that he had to start playing with his right. Minoe thanked his training at the Nest, it'd be the only time he thanked his former team. Coach Norman had overseen that their training had included both weak and strong hand drills due to injuries severe as these.

A severe autumn wind pulled the dark fabric from his head. Wind curled around his ears, fluffed his hair, and kissed his cheeks. Shit.

Minoe's distinct, recognizable, green eyes went wide as the world stopped. He pulled the hood straight back up before the screaming could ensue, but he wasn't fast enough. Not with his fucked left hand. Minoe heard the thuds of phones, the silent whispers, and unfortunately, the screams.

_"Was that Minoe Lapelle?"_

_"Why would he drag his pompous ass to this school?"_

He sighed. Two sides of the same coin. Even Minoe Lapelle wasn't worshiped by everyone. Then they saw Coach Sanders and Rowan Afeldan and went quiet at the sharp grin dancing on the other boy's lips, the murderous deeds he was itching to do.

"Leave it." Cold and demanding. Words that fell off of Minoe's lips without hesitation. He didn't look back as he pushed past the barricade and onto the first rung of metal stairs. "Scouting remember?" He said switching to his arrogant public face. The smirk curled before he even realized it. The hood fell off once again as he turned towards the keeper. "Not mass murder." 

-

" **YOU** are so damned lucky that none of them started recording, otherwise your face would be all over the internet and on every sports blog ever known. " Rowan hissed as they made their way up the bleachers.

"It's not my fault," he hissed back, the mask crumbling as they settled further up the bleachers.. "I didn't ask for any of this."

"It was to be expected. Remember, you're Minoe Lapelle, famous son of reverb, unwanted attention is always going to rear its ugly head."

He pressed his lips together, forcing the retort he so badly wanted to say down. "Good dog."

He didn't keep any promises about gestures. 

-

**IT** seemed like years had passed before the game officially started, especially for Minoe. Seeing as everyone stared at the reverb golden boy.

He made sure to not seem irritated by them. He appreciated his fans like any self-respecting person, but they didn't appreciate his personal space. They didn't appreciate why he transferred over to Indiane instead of staying at Norman, they never did. All they ever wanted was to see him and Ariken Kaede reunited on the same court with smiles on their faces. What a fucking dream.

The game started without a single hitch qne Minoe had seen the differences in Court and high school level play within a snap. They played more ferociously, more desperately than the conceited asses in Court (the National League). Which meant the court fields... aren't always up to par? Mud, is what he's trying to say.

The players were slipping before they could make a clean coherent pass. But not Ririka. Never Ririka. Throughout the whole game she held onto the ball and racquet like her life depended on it. Ten minutes in he thought it looked like a one woman game, and soon enough so did she. 

Ririka stopped bothering herself with the passes and instead kept rebounding it against the grass once her twelve steps were up and used. Her blue uniform was still pristine in this weather, that is, until the opposition started checking her and not her teammates. 

After a particularly hard one, that sent Ririka into the barricade, had left a definite streak of mud across her whole right side. 

The game eventually descended into chaos. Mud smeared over gear, loose grips on racquets, and the profanities being thrown like reverb balls. In perfect harmony, this game was the perfect disaster. Yet there was still a sense of classiness to the game even as the mud crusted over. The Malent Badgers started to sync their movements with the mud, one would tine their pass when they'd start to slip, another would be ready to catch the whipping ball through the rain. Clearly the halftime talk helped. 

Then came the full body checks that almost every player on the field suffered as they collided into the barricade, the plexiglass shaking like thunder. And the weather eventually won over their comeback. A solid 2-1 loss. Not bad in weather like this.

One thing he could say was that the girl needed stability, it didn't take a genius to figure that out. He had seen it in her eye when he first looked at the photos. She was a runaway, something he didn't divulge with Coach Sanders, because in a way, he was a runaway too. People kept secrets because it was a way of life. Why the tell the truth when people can think you're okay?

Minoe ran away from the one family he ever knew and it had been a breath of fresh air. So if the girl wanted to remain innocuous? Then he'd have to bear it until she warms up to all of them, but he wouldn't relent on his "difficult" training techniques. It's what got him to the top of the division and nothing else will exceed that.

But this was it. She was the future. All he had to do is convince her to sign with Indiane. Which, he would admit was harder than he thought.


	2. Torn Between Deaths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ririka gets an offer she can't refuse.

**RIRIKA** breathed in the calming toxic smoke of the cigarette, the white wisps forming in front of her mouth as she exhaled deeply.

She'd lit it after a particularly long shower. A shower she had spent most of her time washing mud out of her hair and every other place the mud had seeped through the cracks in her gear. The game had been a disaster, with its conditions.

Her uniform was desecrated beyond recognition, not to mention the gear. Every crook and strap had been covered in brown sludge. Nothing had been safe from its hand. It'd taken her nearly an hour to return it back to its pristine look, and by then, the locker room had cleared out. Once Ririka was sure she was alone, she'd fished out her lighter from her duffel. Could you blame her? Ririka needed it after that disaster of a game. It had been a fucking catastrophe. The field was  _ exceptional  _ with its various holes and footprints, not to mention its puddles of mud that seemed to splash with every provocation. You sense the sarcasm?

She wasn't sure how they managed to have a cohesive matchup with the horrendous conditions on the court. No one had been able to walk, let alone run on the court as rain continued to pour on. It'd been a relief when the full ninety minutes had passed. Ririka wasn't sure if she could take any more punishment. At one point during the game, she considered bashing their striker's head into the barricade so she'd be sent off the court. She didn't enjoy the game this time around, there were parts she liked, and there were some she didn't. But the other games earlier in the season had been her favorites because they were fresh and exciting. This was pure concentration and frustration.

Ririka took in another breath, this one more deeper than the previous. Though she regretted lighting the cigarette in the girl's locker room of all places, she didn't particularly give a shit anymore. She was graduating in a few months and she'd be off to live the rest of her miserable life off the grid.

She perched her arms against the window sill, minding the water droplets that had splattered in. The humid breeze wafting over her damp skin and freckled cheeks. This school was weird to have their locker rooms so close to the backfield where lacrosse (sometimes soccer) and reverb courts would be seen. But Ririka didn't really give a rat's ass about it, she wasn't an architectural engineer. Who was she to judge? It wasn't hers to love. Soon enough Ririka Pinne was going to be nothing but a name.

From here she could still see the reverb court before they dismantled and returned it back to its natural state for next season. The most popular sport in the nation, ready to be taken apart due to a one point gap. To say she was surprised was an understatement.

The team was average at best. They knew how to play like a coherent unit, but that was when they spoke and communicated on the court. When she played at the Nest, it was more than just teamwork that got you through a game. It was the comradery, the unspoken words and movements that you made to stand out amongst the rest. At the Nest you were hardwired to anticipate and  _ know _ what your partner or dealer was going to do next. Whether it'd be the way they pivoted their foot, or the testy weight of their swing. It was the little things that made a team  _ perfect _ . Without those things you lose the unpredictability of the game and are basically giving out your next moves to the opposition.

Though Ririka initially had doubts about joining at a particularly lower level, Ririka actually enjoyed being in school in some weird way. Maybe it was because she didn't really have the typical normal life and hardships as the rest. Things were handed to her when she used to live in San Francisco. Here in the middle of nowhere, she could work, and have it mean something. Which is how she earned her spot as a striker, and unfortunately captain.

Ririka wished that she didn't have to draw that more attention to herself by playing as the lead striker and be a captain of a team who didn't know the complexity of team building. But somehow— _ someway,  _ Ririka stayed undetected by the people she so desperately wanted to avoid.

She laughed into the air, bitter and cold. Here she was laughing about yet another failed season as a high school career came to an end. Ririka didn't think of where she would end up next. Didn't think of the next town to escape to after she graduated and was left to fend for herself. She didn't  _ think _ . Maybe that's why she was caught by Coach Angeles. Why it took her by surprise when the older woman spoke from behind.

"I know I shouldn't be criticizing one of my players for bad health." Cheery and true. The coach had to be high to sound  _ that _ sincere. "But you shouldn't be smoking."

Ririka extinguished it against the sill of the window, the blunt sizzling as it met one of the raindrops, and threw it out onto the grass below, along with the other cigarettes she so carelessly dropped. "Better?"

Angeles didn't answer, instead, the lady dropped a file down onto the bench, papers ruffling like leaves on a tree. Ririka recognized it immediately, her dull brown eyes widening ever so slightly.

_ Fuck _ .

Someone came out all this way to Malent just to scout? Why would they do that? They couldn't have. If colleges wanted to find new players to bring interest into their teams, they would go to one of the more prestigious schools, not this...  _ shit-hole _ . Why would they want some local who had some average skills? Was it for the appeal, have some small town nobody be a star? Little did they know.

"Who?" She managed to say calmly, fingers twitching for another cigarette.

"I figured that your parents would be here," she said, ignoring Ririka once more. "To see that their daughter was going to get somewhere in life. Where are they?"

"Away." She said hardening her voice, her mix between a french and british accent thickening ever so slightly.

"Away where?"

Ririka resisted the urge to roll her eyes, she couldn't be annoyed at the mini interrogation currently taking place. She endured plenty more worse, she knew how to avoid this question thoroughly. After all, she's been asked this a multitude of times by many different people. All anyone wanted was the truth. But could they stomach it if she said,  _ "One is dead and another is a notorious assassin?" _

She took in a deep breath, white smoke clouding in front of her as she faked her hesitation. "Construction, it's all they seem to do."

Coach Angeles' frowned, disliking the vague answer. "I sent a recommendation to Indiane." Ririka's heart stopped. "I also sent a tape." Her lungs stopped working. "They were watching the game."

She gripped the window sill, forcing her shaking fingers into submission. Ririka spent too long here. Two years too long. Fucking idiot!

Ririka took in another breath and turned around to meet Angeles. The woman wasn't much older than she was, mid twenties maybe. Her lot were always gullible and full of hope. She should've known that Nadia Angeles would've pulled something like this.

She stepped forward and grabbed the file off the wooden bench, quickly skimming it over. It was a college application. Dread settled down in her bones. There her name was in bold lettering and the picture she hated. Maybe she went overboard with the changes but it was fairly necessary when you don't want to be found.

"Who?" She repeated, closing the file and tucking it tightly underneath her arm. Grabbing her worn book-bag off from the tiled floor, she slung it over her shoulder, feet spread apart ready for anything.

The black windbreaker she wore concealed a lot from the eye, the tank top underneath did not.

Angeles tilted her head, dark braids falling to one side as she surveyed Ririka's black clad figure. "You know who."

A tense, quiet moment passed before Ririka opened her mouth again. "I'll think about it." The words caressed the air, barely even spoken at all.

"You better." A figure leaned against the open door frame and Ririka wanted to die on the spot, hell she almost jumped at the familiar voice. Coach Arthur Sanders, the infamous coach of the Indiane State Wolves. She unconsciously backed towards the open window. "I didn't get on a flight all the way from California to North Carolina just for you to refuse."

Ririka didn't want to stick around to hear the rest.

Once her hands found purchase on the sill, it was only a matter of grip and ease to get her slim body through the sliver of space with controlled gracefulness. Ririka's feet hit the grass and she was running before she could feel it shift against her weight. 

This was a rather normal occurrence for her, running. Running away from every opportunity to live her dream of being a professional athlete. Running away from everything she coveted in this pathetic life of hers.

Ririka knew she could never be a wolf, she could never  _ be _ Minoe. This life was not meant for her, she knew that. But Ririka could never give up reverb, a sport known for its fierce and competitive nature for something vanilla and bland. She wanted a rush, she wanted something that made her feel  _ alive _ . Reverb had done that for her, but she wouldn't join the Indiane Wolves, she just  _ couldn't  _ .

The Indiane State Wolves were  _ the  _ controversial team in the whole reverb community due to the nature of their players. Misfits, delinquents, runaways, and addicts, whatever fucked up people there were in the world, you could find them at Indiane. Joining them meant drawing more attention towards herself. Everything her father risked would be going down the drain because of her passion—her  _ stupidity.  _ Ririka couldn't let him die in vain because she was finally passionate about something.

She continued to run down the bleachers, desperate to shut down her thoughts once and for all. Ririka was tense the whole way down. And though she heard no indication of sound behind or in front of her, Ririka didn't drop her defenses, she could feel it. Someone was watching her as she ran down these bleachers without slipping, watching as she vaulted over the fence without losing her grip despite the metal being slick with rain. Her feet hit gravel, wincing as the impact settled in her feet, finally making it to the track-field the court was engulfed by. 

Ririka quickly forced in a breath despite her lungs protesting when she heard the sharp whizzing of air. The sound of a racquet being swung. Without thinking she swept her leg in one smooth motion, her hands prepared to grab the stick that would most likely fall. Ririka caught it within seconds, barely blinking before she took in the person in question.

A glimpse of inky curled hair that was meant to be run through. Green feline like eyes that held many promises. A wicked smile that crept onto their stubborn lips that no doubt have said something foul, and the sharp yet soft jawline. He wasn't the typical handsome with a chiseled jaw and strong facial structure. He was beautiful in the way that painters would kill to capture his countenance if they ever walked by. 

Ririka held in her grimace. She'd never tell anyone that and here she was spewing Shakespearean nonsense.  _ Think with your brain not with your eyes.  _

"She's good," said Rowan Afeldan in an amused tone. 

The aloof keeper of the Indiane State Wolves. If he was here then that meant—slow clapping emerged from the shadows in the form of the person she knew all too well. In another life they would've been friends, siblings even. 

Ririka tightened her slender bony fingers on the reverb racquet she was holding. Fuck— _ shit.  _

Ririka Pinne, runaway, was staring eye to eye with Minoe Lapelle, the prodigy son of reverb.

"What are you doing here?" She said through clenched teeth and breaths, anger surfacing like another weight. 

Minoe rolled his eyes. Still the pompous brat it seemed. "We're here to offer you a contract, not watch you drop our goalie like dead weight."

"Why come here? You had your pick of so many schools, why did you have to choose this dump?"

"A lot of questions, this one," said Rowan, still amused as he pushed himself up to his feet, dusting his black ensemble free of the dirt and rocks. It was a casual deliberate movement. It was as if he hadn't been knocked down to his arse. "Are you sure about this?"

"She has potential."

"Yeah, the potential to get herself killed. Imagine if that was—"

"Shut your mouth," Minoe cut harshly. Old habits die hard when there are secrets to be kept and funnily enough, Afeldan did exactly as Minoe said, albeit begrudgingly. "You better hope it doesn't come down to that."

Ririka didn't have to ask to know just who they were talking about.

Ariken Kaede, the self appointed jackass, also known as "The King" by the media. He was the one player you wouldn't like to see both on and off the court. Appearances like those meant bad things were to occur whether you liked it or not. 

"Would you mind explaining why you chose here of all places to recruit a new player?" She asked incredulously, popping their silent bubble. "You had your pick of the most prestigious schools in the world, why here?"

"We saw your tape," Rowan said rather simply as if that solved the world's problems. 

"And what does that have to do with anything?"

"You like you have nothing left to lose, that this is your life, your crutch." Coach Sanders said finally at the bottom of the bleachers, her eyes snapping to the older man. 

Ririka hadn't heard him approach. Her instincts were fading. If she couldn't hear a middle-aged man walk down the metal bleachers then what made her eligible to play reverb, let alone be in Division I?

Fucking hell. She'd have to get sharper then. 

There was an amused quirk of the older man's mouth as he took in the rather destructive scene in front of him. 

Rowan, who was still brushing himself free of gray dust, Minoe who hadn't bothered to help, and her. The way her feet were parted, how she held a defensive stance—she could feel the way his eyes weighed on her as she breathed heavily. Too many eyes, too many tempting offers. 

Is that the only reason why they came? 

Then why was it so hard to believe? 

What made her stand out to them?

Did Minoe even recognize her?

Would he? 

Questions and no answers. It seems like the universe hated her the most if she had so many for her curious traitorous mind. 

Ririka thought she changed her appearance enough. The bright almost platinum like hair was gone, replaced with jet black hair that looked brown on most days. Ririka made sure she stayed insignificant and if that meant dialing down on her defining features, so be it. Secrets were meant to be kept when it has a purpose. 

She mentally breathed, willing her brain to calm down. Composure. All she needed was a sense of composure and room to breathe. Somehow, the thought made her calm down fast as she opened her mouth to fill the tense silence of the bubble they trapped themselves in. 

"Is that all?" The hard and cold voice that rang through her ears sounded too much like her mother.

"I don't think we'll be leaving until we get an answer."

Ririka unconsciously brought her eyes towards Minoe, like she used to when they were on the same side. She looked at him, really looked at him. There was nothing that gave off the fact that he recognized her. She supposed it could be possible that it was fate or even luck that brought them back together. There was a chance she could play for Indiane State, but she couldn't do so for long. She'd have to leave after the first semester or even during the middle of winter. One thing Ririka did know was that she couldn't stay. She just couldn't. Being in that spotlight would draw  _ her  _ in and she couldn't risk all of that to live out her passion.

Ririka thought over her choices. She could either die a runaway, constantly looking over her shoulder for her demons. Or she could die doing the one thing she loved in the world. 

"Alright." Ririka breathed.

"Alright," Sanders said, knowing exactly what that answer meant, and gave her a small brief smile.

She was going to regret this once August came around, but it was about time she made a decision for herself to live. Not just survive, but  _ live _ .

  
  



End file.
